


If I Were You

by Kirathaune



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bodyswap, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirathaune/pseuds/Kirathaune
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley may have survived their trials, but their bosses had a nasty surprise for them—taking their memories away just as they stepped out of Heaven and Hell.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 17
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the events in the TV series. Written for curiouslissa for the 2020 Good Omens Holiday Exchange.

“Sir?”

The word pierced the fog that had encircled Aziraphale’s brain. He blinked and swiveled his head about, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

A building, gleaming and modern, full of glinting glass. A tall, bright atrium. He stood at the bottom of an impossibly long escalator.

He had no idea why.

“Sir, are you all right? You’ve been standing there for quite some time.”

His gaze moved to rest on the receptionist, a stout, middle-aged woman who looked like she could fend off an army of salesmen from her fortress of a desk. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” Aziraphale admitted. “I don’t know how I got here.” 

The receptionist ushered him over to a bank of chairs, and then fetched him a glass of water. “There now, you just relax a bit and drink some water. Can I call a taxi for you, to get you back home?”

“Er, I’m afraid I don’t know where home is,” Aziraphale admitted, and he lifted the glass to his lips with a shaky hand.

“Oh my goodness! Poor dear, must’ve had a meeting gone wrong. I’ve seen it before, people come off those stairs looking like they want to be ill.” She pursed her lips, thinking. “You must have a wallet on you, let’s take a look,” she said.

Aziraphale gave her the water glass and checked his clothing. Nothing in the black jacket he wore. The metal ends of his silver mesh scarf clinked against each other as he patted over his snug black waistcoat—nothing there either. “I don’t think I have one,” he said.

“Back pocket? That’s where I see most men wear them.”

“What a silly place to put a wallet! I sincerely doubt—oh!” Aziraphale retrieved the black leather wallet and handed it to the receptionist.

She flipped it open and scanned its contents. “Don’t you worry, Mr Crowley, we’ll get you home in no time. I’ll ring you a taxi straight away and make you a nice cuppa while you wait.” She handed him back the wallet.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, and while she was on the phone he opened the wallet and peeked at the drivers license.

_Anthony J. Crowley._

While he waited for the taxi and politely sipped his barely drinkable tea, Aziraphale considered the tiny, smirking face on the laminated card. How could he not know who he was? How could he possess a driver’s license and not remember ever once driving a car? He knew enough to recognize his address as being in a pretty posh neighborhood, and he could tell his clothing was impeccably made, probably bespoke.

The taxi arrived, and after thanking the receptionist for her care of him, Aziraphale climbed into the back seat and gave the driver the address on his license. Traffic was the usual mid-afternoon snarl, making what should have been a relatively short trip into an interminably long one. He passed the time by watching the sea of tourists.

He had a small moment of panic when they came to a stop in front of an impressive block of flats, an imposing edifice of black marble that had an equally imposing doorman. 

“That’ll be eleven pound fifty, guv.”

How was he going to pay the cabbie? Aziraphale’s hand went automatically to his inside jacket pocket, the pocket he knew had nothing in it.

Except it did. 

He stared at the notes in his hand; fifteen pounds, enough for the fare and a generous tip. He gave them to the driver, waved off the man’s thanks, and got out of the taxi. As the taxi drove away, he tilted his head back and gazed up at the building, shielding his eyes from the late-afternoon sun.

“Welcome back, Mr Crowley,” the doorman said, reaching for the door handle.

“Er, yes, thank you,” Aziraphale replied.

“Did you have the Bentley serviced, sir? It’s parked over there,” the doorman said, gesturing across the street. “You might want to get it in the garage, because it’s illegally parked and you could get a ticket. I have your extra key but didn’t want to move it without your permission.”

“Oh! Yes, please,” Aziraphale said, relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with the car yet. The jacket pocket produced a ten-pound note, and after dispensing it he entered the lobby, waiting until he was in the lift to check his license for his flat number.

Three floors and a long hallway later, Aziraphale stood in the foyer of his flat, eyes wide and mouth open. 

So much _concrete_. Walls, ceiling, floors, all in a single tone of dark gray. There were notes of color here and there—an extravagant desk with a throne-like chair, both of which faced a wall of windows that afforded a gorgeous view of Mayfair. A beautiful sepia-toned sketch of the Mona Lisa warmed one wall, and Aziraphale perked up when he saw a flash of green off to the left.

“Oh, my, what lovely plants I have,” he exclaimed as he walked into the tiny oasis. He stroked a broad green leaf with his fingers, frowning at the tremor in the branch. “Did you miss me? Don’t worry, I’ll get you all tickety-boo!”

His frown remained as he surveyed his home. _Too dark,_ he thought. _Too empty._

“This won’t do,” Aziraphale told the plants. “We’ll give the old place a sprucing-up, shall we?”


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley stood on the street corner and stared at the building before him.

_A. Z. FELL AND Co._  
_ANTIQUARIAN AND UNUSUAL BOOKS_

He couldn’t remember having a bookshop. Although, to be fair, he couldn’t remember much of anything at the moment.

But the name on the store matched the name on the ivory-and-gilt business cards that he’d found tucked into his waistcoat pocket. The key that was in his pants pocket matched the lock on the door. And the photo on the ID in his bill fold matched the reflection he saw in the shop’s windows. Did he really smile like that? Crowley couldn’t imagine it.

He went back to the door and read the neatly printed hours sign that was affixed to the glass. Frowning, he read it again. “You almost need a slide-rule to figure out when the shop is actually open,” he muttered to himself. “Not very conducive to doing business.” He unlocked the door.

A bell jangled brightly as he pushed the door open, and when he went inside Crowley was immediately assaulted by the smell of Old Things. Antique furnishings and décor, paintings on paneled walls, fine rugs on hardwood floors, and, of course, books.

Books _everywhere._

Crowley walked around the shop, grudgingly admiring the rotunda in the center, with its high domed ceiling of paned glass, and the lovely wrought iron spiral staircase. What he admired even more was the substantial wine rack in one of the back rooms, and he poured himself a generous glass before collapsing on a nearby settee.

What a day. And the thing was, it was near on six and he couldn’t remember anything before four-thirty, when he’d found himself standing at the bottom of a long escalator in the lobby of an office building. Just standing there, not knowing where he was, or why he was there—not even knowing _who_ he was.

He’d brushed off the receptionist’s concern and headed to the nearest pub, where he’d gotten a double Scotch and a table in the back. A search of his pockets had yielded the business cards and ID, and he’d had the barman ring him a taxi.

An hour later, Crowley sat in what was apparently his bookshop, with more questions than answers. After a good swallow of wine, he ticked them off to himself.

Why didn’t he have a driver’s license? Or a cell phone for that matter? He’d automatically reached for one in the pub, but found nothing. Why the hell did he have a _rotary_ phone in the shop? And a computer that barely deserved the name? Not to mention the antique cash register on the front counter. 

“And don’t get me started on the gramophone,” Crowley said to no one in particular. He drained the glass, and poured himself some more wine.

It didn’t _fit_. He didn’t feel like a booky type, antiquarian or otherwise, nor did he feel like a person who would dress like someone just barely in this century. _That_ was getting fixed pretty quickly, he promised himself—who wore pocket watches any more? He decided if he couldn’t find his phone he would just buy a new one—he’d discovered his wallet had a neat trick of having whatever money he needed at the moment, something that had come in handy at the pub and in the taxi. 

Whatever had caused Crowley’s current state, he could at least address some of the things that were making him feel so disconnected. In the morning he would get himself properly kitted out, and then work on modernizing the shop a bit; nothing too drastic, just a new computer and checkout system, and maybe a nice audio system.

And plants. The place needed some plants.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale took a sip of his tea while he gingerly stepped around the housepainter’s drop cloth. There was only one coat of paint on the walls, but the flat already looked a hundred times better. The warm, rich French vanilla color he’d chosen added much-needed lightness to the place, and Aziraphale knew that the rugs he had purchased would complement it perfectly.

The flat was bustling with activity. Delivery men were busy relocating the massive desk and its throne-like chair to another room at the end of the flat, making room for the antique furnishings he’d found at a shop just down the road. The painter was on his second coat, and once that he done the lads from the rug shop would come in, and then the furniture would be delivered. By the end of the day the dark ‘throne room’ would be transformed into a very comfortable sitting room.

He’d been transformed too, Aziraphale thought, brushing his fingers over the fawn-colored velvet of his new waistcoat. He’d traded the black shirt for a white one, the black jeans for a pair of woolen trousers and the mesh scarf for a tartan bow tie. He’d had to keep the sunglasses, though, after an unfortunate incident at the local Sainsbury’s where the cashier had fainted when he’d taken them off.*

“Mr Crowley?”

Aziraphale turned toward the worker who was working on replacing the revolving wall with a set of French doors. “Yes?”

The man gestured at the new doors, and his tool bags. “I’m going to be making quite a bit of noise with these, sir, you might prefer to be out of the house for an hour or so.”

While the flat was quite spacious, Aziraphale knew there would be no escaping the noise. “I think you’re right,” he said. “A nice walk would do me good.”

He dropped off his mug in the kitchen sink, reassured the plants that they were going to love the new doors, and then he fetched his jacket and headed downstairs.

It wasn’t until he reached the lobby door that Aziraphale realized he had no clue where to go. He’d had his fill of shopping over the past few days, so heading down to the Burlington Arcade held no appeal. And it was far too early for afternoon tea.

“Ready to take the Bentley out for a spin, Mr Crowley?” the doorman asked.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Good heavens, no. But the workers in my flat suggested I get away for an hour or so, since they are going to be noisy for awhile. I need to think of a place to go.”

“Well, sir, you’ve told me before that you go to St. James’s Park now and then, to feed the ducks.” The doorman nodded at the cerulean, cloudless sky. “Looks to be a lovely afternoon to do that.” He held open the door.

Aziraphale thought that was an excellent idea, so he stepped out into the sunshine and leisurely walked to the park. He treated himself to an ice cream from one of the kiosks, and after finding a twenty-five pence coin in his jacket pocket—a new, buff-colored wool jacket that seemed to have the same money-producing capabilities as his wallet—he bought a packet of duck food and wandered over to a spot that had a dozen or so ducks nearby.

He wasn’t alone.

Aziraphale noticed another man leaning on the railing a few meters away, lobbing food at a noisy group of ducks. The man was dressed all in black, and while it was in a style that was uncannily like the way Aziraphale had been dressed only a few days ago, everything was was impeccably tailored to suit his shorter, portly frame. He even had dark glasses like the ones Aziraphale wore, although Aziraphale was fairly, enviously, certain that the man didn’t wear them to conceal an unusual eye condition.*

The only thing that seemed out of place was the short, wavy, almost platinum blond hair, with a hint of curls at the top.

The man threw another handful of food at the ducks, who squawked at him in reproof.

“I think they’d prefer not to be target practice,” Aziraphale said.

The man glanced at him over the tops of his designer eyewear, revealing a pair of expressive hazel eyes. “Eh, I’m sure they get worse from the tourists.” The next handful did seem to be tossed a little more gently, though.

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale replied, and he tended to his group of hungry waterfowl.

They fed the ducks in a companionable silence. After awhile, Aziraphale checked his watch and decided it would be safe to go back to his flat. “I must be off,” he said. “I’m having renovations done at my flat, and they shooed me away for the noisy bits. I think I can head back now.” He extended a hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr, er—?”

“Fell,” the man replied, shaking his hand. “A… Anthony Fell.”

“What a coincidence!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “My name is Anthony as well. Anthony Crowley.” He tossed the empty packet into a nearby bin. “Perhaps I’ll see you here again.”

“Perhaps,” Fell said, one side of his mouth quirking up in amusement. “Ducks do like to eat on the regular.”

Aziraphale waved and headed back to the flat, smiling as he navigated though the sea of tourists. Anthony Fell seemed like an interesting fellow, in spite of his duck-feeding technique.

*Although he had to admit, the night vision was pretty spiffy. 


	4. Chapter 4

Anathema had saved cleaning the sitting room in Jasmine Cottage for last; during the unnatural storm the front windows had broken, and the winds had caught the ashes in the fireplace and spread them _everywhere_. She’d had the windows fixed earlier in the week, and now just the clean-up was left.

“Just the clean-up,” she muttered as she finished braiding her hair. Newt was away, picking up some things from his flat and checking in on his mum, and Anathema decided that an afternoon on her own would do her some good. 

She tied on a kerchief to cover her hair, pulled on some rubber gloves, and set to work.

She had to admit that she was in love with the little cottage, and in spite of everything, in love with Tadfield too. She’d made inquiries about purchasing the property, and hoped Jasmine Cottage would become her home. While she cleaned she imagined how the room would look with her own things, decorated in her own style.

Hers. Her own. Not decided by a book that had dominated most of her life.

Her feelings regarding Newt were a little more complicated; but if nothing else she _liked_ him, liked his gentle, awkward charm, and appreciated the way he pushed her to think for herself. 

She hoovered the floor and rug, and she giggled when she caught her reflection in the window. The giggle turned to a laugh, and Anathema danced with the machine as she finished up.

A knock on the door interrupted her bout of silliness. She opened the door to find Adam Young standing on her doorstep. 

“Adam!” Anathema automatically looked around for the rest of The Them. “I… thought you were grounded?”

“I snuck out,” Adam replied, unrepentant. “I needed to see you, miss.”

Anathema opened her mouth to tell him to use her given name, then closed it and gave up. Some things get ingrained in childhood, she realized. She opened the door wider and gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on in,” she said, “and tell me what’s up.”

She cleared off a section of the kitchen table, and then she fixed up a small plate of biscuits, poured a glass of milk and set them down in front of Adam. She sat down in the opposite chair and waited.

“You remember those men we saw at the airfield?” Adam asked around a mouthful of biscuit. “The one with the sunglasses and the other with the flaming sword?”

Anathema nodded, deciding to keep out the bit about how they’d run her over and ended up taking Agnes’ book. 

“One’s an angel, and one’s a demon,” Adam said. “But I think they got in trouble because of helping me.” He gulped down half his milk.

“Trouble how?” Anathema asked. 

“They’re mixed up,” Adam said. “They’re mixed up and they don’t know who they are. I want to help them, because they helped me.” He shoved another biscuit into his mouth.

“That’s very sweet of you, Adam,” Anathema said. “But do you know where they are?”

Adam made a mouth-full-of-biscuit noise and shrugged.

On any other day, Anathema would have found it fascinating that the Antichrist knew that the two celestial beings were ‘mixed up’ and apparently amnesiac, but had no clue where they were. But today he was a little boy who’d snuck away from home to see her, and ask for her help.

“I don’t know where they are either,” she said. She could probably do some divining… or maybe she’d see if Agnes had anything to say. She pulled the tattered book toward her and did an old childhood trick, standing it on its spine to see where it opened.

She didn’t see anything of interest beyond a strange prophecy that referred to an angel reading Agnes’ words ‘in a shoppe of other menne’s books,’ but what did catch her eye was the cream and gold business card that had been used as a hasty bookmark.

_A. Z. FELL AND Co._  
_ANTIQUARIAN AND UNUSUAL BOOKS_

There was a London address in the bottom corner.

She held up the card to show Adam.

“Aziraphale!” Adam said. “He’s the angel. He has a bookshop. It burnt down, but I fixed it for him. I fixed Crowley’s car for him, too.”

Another fascinating item for another day. Anathema tucked that tidbit away for future consideration.

She wiggled the card between her fingers and said, “Do you think your dad would let you come to London with me?”


	5. Chapter 5

Business was surprisingly brisk at the bookshop. Crowley would never have guessed that antiquarian books would be so popular.

Over the past week, he’d learned that he’d apparently been a bit of a hard-ass about selling his books, which completely gobsmacked him—why would you own a bookshop and _not_ sell books? A few patrons got quite tearful when he’d sold them some volumes, one even asked if he meant it and was he really sure.

The place was looking good. On a whim he’d swapped out the cream wall paint for a nice gray, and bought a few dozen houseplants that he’d arranged throughout the shop. Another new addition was the coffee and espresso bar near the back wall. In the back room he’d spent an afternoon transferring the contents of the ancient computer into a new iMac Pro, and now classical music played at a tasteful volume, thanks to the swank B&W setup he’d had delivered the day before. 

The result was a shop full of customers; some who browsed, bought, and left, and others who made an afternoon of it and sipped tiny cups of espresso while they curled up in a chair and skimmed through stacks of books. Those were the ones who generally bought the most, and Crowley happily rang up their substantial purchases on his new Square point of sale system.

At some point, he thought, he was going to have to figure out how to get more old books.

By late morning there was a lull in the shop, and Crowley took advantage of it and closed up for lunch. He decided to go where his feet led him, and as he walked through the crowded streets of Soho he wondered if getting a car would be the smartest thing. Parking seemed non-existent, and there weren’t many decent garages in the area.

But he really, _really_ wanted a car. Something dark as night, long and sleek, and exquisitely posh.

His feet stopped at the Ritz. Crowley gazed up at the opulent blue and gold canopy, the warm wood and glass of the entrance, and the liveried doormen at the base of the marble stairs. He nodded at them, and one nodded back while the other went inside.

Had he been here before? His feet certainly seemed to think so.

“Mr Fell? Anthony? What a surprise, seeing you here.”

Crowley turned to see the man from St. James’s Park standing a few feet away. His name was… Crowley, wasn’t it? His fellow Anthony. “I was out for a walk and found myself here,” he said.

Mr Crowley nodded. “I was the same. It’s such a beautiful building. Have you dined here before?”

“I suppose I have,” Crowley replied. “You?”

“I think so,” the other Anthony said.

A strange answer, Crowley thought. Before he could give any more consideration to it, the maitre d’ came outside and hurried toward them.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen! I’m so sorry, I didn’t see that you had a reservation for lunch today. Completely my fault, I’m sure. But as it happens, the party that had your usual table had to leave unexpectedly, so I can seat you now.” The man gestured toward the revolving door at the top of the stairs. “Would you come with me, please?”

Crowley was about to object, but then he decided to just roll with it. “Obviously _he_ thinks we’ve both dined here before,” he said to Anthony. “Care to join me for lunch?”

“That would be splendid! I’d love to.”

Lunch was enjoyable, excellent food punctuated by his companion’s chatter. When they finished their entrées, the waiter brought the dessert cart to the table, and Crowley chose a coffee while Anthony selected a slice of effusively decorated cake. 

Over dessert, Anthony told him about the work being done on his Mayfair flat, and how his doorman kept asking him when he would take his car out for a drive. 

“I don’t even know why I have it, really,” Anthony said, taking another bite of cake. “It’s terribly impractical to have a car in this part of London, much less a vintage one.”

That got Crowley’s attention. “Vintage?”

“Yes, a 1933 Bentley.”

“A Bentley?” Crowley sat up. “And you won’t drive it? Are you mad? Poor thing, languishing in a garage like that.” He wondered if could finagle his way into buying it. A _Bentley_.

“Well, enough about me and my poor car,” Anthony said. He speared the last piece of cake with his fork. “What about you?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not much to tell. I have a bookshop in Soho—”

“A bookshop! How wonderful! I adore books.” Anthony beamed at him. “Do you have a card?”

Crowley fished one out of his wallet and handed it over.

“Antiquarian and Unusual Books,” Anthony read. “I should love to visit there sometime.” He pocketed the card.

The waiter placed a tray with the check on the table, and Crowley reached over to pull it toward him. As usual, his wallet had just enough cash in it to pay the bill and add a generous tip. “My shop’s not too far from here,” he said. “Why don’t you come by now? I planned on staying closed the rest of the day, you can peruse the stacks without all the customers there. And I have a decent wine shelf, we can find something to crack open.” Maybe if he got Anthony drunk enough, Crowley could convince him to sell the Bentley.

“That would be perfect. And thank you for lunch!”

“My pleasure. Shall we go?”


	6. Chapter 6

Anathema and Adam exited the Piccadilly Circus tube station and stood at the top of the steps, mouths agape at the cacophony of sights and sounds that greeted their arrival in London.

“Those lighted signs are so huge,” Adam said. “Are they on all the time? There’s so many people!”

“There are,” Anathema replied. “This reminds me a little of Times Square in New York City. They have big lighted signs and a lot of people, too!”

Fellow travelers buffeted them on either side, and a few people urged them to get out of the way. Anathema gripped Adam’s hand tightly and led him to a less crowded spot—only slightly less crowded, though, because it _was_ Piccadilly Circus. They made their way to a statue in the center of the square and found a spot to sit on the concrete steps that surrounded it.

“Hang onto my coat,” Anathema said, and then she pulled out her phone and opened up her navigation app. According to her phone, the bookshop was less than a ten minute walk, but with no less than five streets leading out of the circus, Anathema needed to get her bearings first.

Convincing Mr Young to let her take his son to London had been surprisingly easy. Adam had snuck back home, and Anathema had showed up at the Youngs’ doorstep a little while later. She’d babbled some nonsense about feeling bad that Adam had become obsessed with the magazines she’d loaned him, and hey, the Science Museum had an exhibition on science conspiracy theories, she’d love to take Adam there for the day, her treat.

Adam had played along beautifully and begged to go, and very quickly agreed to his father’s stipulation that only he, and not the rest of The Them, would be part of the trip. The other stipulation was to be back by dinner.

In the morning she packed a bag with sandwiches, snacks, and drinks, picked Adam up, and headed to the train station. They’d arrived in London a little over an hour later.

Adam dug in the bag for a bottle of water and a sandwich while Anathema studied the map on her phone. She zoomed in, matched each of the large buildings around them to their corresponding streets, and then she dragged the little map around with her fingertips until she found their destination. _There._

“Okay, I think I know where we’re going,” she said. “Ready?”

Adam nodded, stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, and wiped his hands on his jeans before getting up from the step. 

Anathema rolled her eyes at the eating habits of eleven-year-old boys and took his sticky hand. “Let’s go, and make sure you keep hold of my hand.”

Once they got a few blocks away from Piccadilly Circus, the crowds thinned out a bit, much to Anathema’s relief. She checked her phone at each intersection, and after a couple of near-misses, they finally turned onto the cobbled walkway of Carnaby Street.

“Just a bit further,” Anathema said, and then Adam darted ahead, pulling her with him.

“There it is!” he said, pointing to a corner shop.

For a second, she was painfully aware that she hadn’t thought of checking the shop’s hours. What if they’d come all the way here just to find it closed? But thankfully the door opened and they went inside.

The bookshop was beautiful, and it took all of Anathema’s concentration to stay focused and not gape at all the old books. Classical music played quietly in the background, and she heard two men talking, although she couldn’t see anyone.

“Anthony, this is a marvelous collection, you have some truly rare volumes here. I’m so glad I came with you—oh! You have customers.”

Anathema saw the tall redhead she knew as Crowley come out from behind a tall bookshelf, but she knew immediately that something wasn’t right. Crowley was dressed in the same creams and tans that she had seen Aziraphale wear, and his manner was completely different, even though he still wore the sunglasses.

‘I must’ve forgotten to lock the door when we came in.” His companion, plump and blond-haired, came out from behind the register, wineglass in hand. “I’m sorry, miss, but the shop is actually closed.”

It was Aziraphale. But he was dressed all in black, and carried himself with a swagger that didn’t quite fit his frame.

Adam was right, she realized. They _were_ mixed up. But she thought it was interesting—and rather sweet—that somehow they’d met and become friends again.

Adam walked over to ‘Crowley’ and took his hand. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “You got mixed up, and you don’t know who you are. I think you got in trouble with those other people who were at the airbase.” Adam pulled him toward the other man.

‘Aziraphale’ set his wineglass on the counter. “What are you going on about? I said the shop is closed, you two need to leave.”

“I want to help you,” Adam insisted. “You helped me, so I’m going to fix you, like I fixed your other stuff.”

“Fix us? What the hell—”

His voice cut off as Adam took his hand. Anathema felt the hair at the back of her neck rising, and felt a strange energy coming from not only the boy, but the men on either side of him. She backed away as all three of them started to glow.

A wind kicked up out of nowhere, blowing papers around the main room, and toppling a few piles of books. The glow increased, and Anathema swore she could see wisps of energy emerge from each man, forming shimmering clouds that swirled wildly about them before coursing through their linked hands to pour into the other.

In the sudden silence, Adam released them. They staggered back, grasping at counter and bookshelf in an effort to keep their balance.

Aziraphale was the first to find his voice. “Adam? Miss Device? What are you doing here?”

“I think you got in trouble with your bosses,” Adam said. 

“We did,” Crowley said. “We knew there was going to be trouble, so we switched bodies, to keep from being harmed by holy water and hellfire.”

“And it worked!” Aziraphale said. “The plan did work. But now I remember, as I was leaving…”

“They realized what we did,” Crowley said, “and the bastards took away our memories so that we stayed switched.” He looked down at his tan trousers and buff-colored jacket. “I can’t believe I’m dressed like this.”

Aziraphale looked around the shop with wide eyes. “You changed the wall color,” he said accusingly. “And you’ve been _selling_ my books?” He disappeared into the back room.

Crowley threw his hands in the air. “It’s a bookshop! You’re _supposed_ to sell books!”

A wail emerged from the back of the shop. “Crowley! What did you do to my computer?”

Anathema thought it was as good a time as any to leave. “It was nice to see you both again,” she said, as Crowley followed the angel into the back room. “Adam, it looks like you got them all back to normal. Shall we go?”

Adam grinned at her. “We don’t have to go home yet, do we? You told my dad we were going to that exhibit at the museum.”

Anathema bit her lip. “I… kind of made that up,” she admitted. “There isn’t an exhibit.”

“Still, we don’t have to be home til dinner, right? Can we go on that big Ferris wheel instead?” Adam bounced on the balls of his feet. “It’s huge! I bet I could see my house from there!”

She laughed. “Sure, why not? You earned it.” She held open the door, and then nodded toward the back of the shop, where the angel’s voice was rising in alarm as he discovered more changes to his shop. “I think it might take awhile for them to get completely back to normal.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I can’t believe you sold so many books,” Aziraphale said. The springs of his desk chair squeaked as he leaned back and sipped more of his wine. “I’ll have to go to the auction this week.” He’d probably have to go for a few weeks; Crowley had proved to be a very able salesman. But then again, most demons were. 

Crowley sprawled out on the sofa, nursing a glass of whiskey. “So _that’s_ how you get your books.”

“Well, I certainly don’t miracle them,” Aziraphale replied. He ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “I do have to admit the new computer system is nice. I’ll be able to better see where my collection—er, inventory, is thin.”

“Oh ho ho!” Crowley said, and he waggled a slightly drunk finger at the angel. “So not everything is horrible.”

“Well, no, not entirely,” Aziraphale admitted. “I do like the new stereo system.”

“Quality sound, that.”

“And I like the way that the day’s sales go right from the dot of sale system—”

“ _Point_ of sale—”

“Into the new computer.” Aziraphale reached for the wine bottle and refilled his glass. “But the walls are going back to a nice, neutral, tan.”

Crowley made a rude noise. “You know, you’re not fooling me, angel. You painted my flat, I know you did. What other sort of ‘renovations’ did you make?”

“Er…” Aziraphale decided to not mention any of the other improvements he’d made to the flat. “I didn’t touch the plants.”

“I probably won’t recognize it.” Crowley sat up. “Wait. At lunch you said you had a Bentley. _My_ Bentley?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I think Adam fixed it.”

“Like how he fixed your bookshop,” Crowley mused. “My car. I was going to try and buy it off you.”

“I would have sold it to you!”

They laughed.

“And apparently Adam has ‘fixed’ us,” Aziraphale said. “He’s a kind child.”

“Unlike our respective management,” Crowley said sourly. “We’re lucky he sensed there was something wrong. We would have lived each other’s lives without ever knowing. I would have been wearing _this_ for the rest of eternity.” He plucked at his velvet waistcoat. “Nice job on the fit, by the way.”

“I shall be glad to not have to wear those sunglasses,” Aziraphale declared. “You can have your eyes back. You did make me look quite stylish, though.” Despite admiring the way he looked in Crowley’s mix of blacks and sheens, he looked forward to donning his more familiar clothes.

“It’s funny how we ended up becoming friends again,” Crowley said. “We did all the things we normally do, like feed the ducks and eat at the Ritz. We just didn’t know it was us.”

“I’m glad we did, although where on earth did you come up with the name ‘Anthony?’ When pressed for a given name, I usually use 'Ezra.'”

Crowley flapped his hand. “Everything just says ‘A. Z. Fell’—the shop, your cards, all your paperwork. I didn’t really think about it until you introduced yourself, and it was the first name that popped into my head. For obvious reasons.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Well, _Anthony,_ it’s nice to meet you again.” He reached out and clinked his wineglass against Crowley’s crystal tumbler. “To Adam. And us.”

Crowley clinked back. “And to the world.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened. “To the world.”

_-fin-_


End file.
